


Hey Lover, I Got a Sugarcane

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A/B/O Anatomy, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha rut, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Biting, Blood, But Really Super Negotiated & Enthusiastic Consent, Crying, Established Relationship, Heat Intoxication, Heat Related Consent Issues, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Nesting, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, References to Mpreg, Sappy Ending, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Put Peter on the phone,” Stiles says, too sharp to be polite.</p><p>“What?”  Derek sounds completely thrown.  “Stiles, I don’t think— Okay, you’re obviously not understanding what’s happening here.  Peter isn’t talking.  He’s basically just growling at this point, and he’s rounding on anyone that gets too close.  He actually bit me when I tried to take back my pillow.  I nearly lost a thumb.”</p><p>“Derek.” The reality of this shitshow of a situation is finally kicking in, undeniably, and Stiles needs to hear Peter’s voice.  “Just trust the omega, okay?  Tell him it’s me, and give him the damn phone.”</p><p>---</p><p>"Wrangling Rut-Drunk Alpha Boyfriends 101" by Stiles Stilinski, omega and responsible adult person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's first A/B/O, and of course I fucked around with the trope. Note the "non-traditional a/b/o" tag. We're still going to get some self-lubrication, knotting dicks, and messy sex, so no worries, folks.
> 
> This got much longer (and, eventually, so much sappier) than I planned, so I’m breaking it into chapters. The whole thing is mostly written, but I’m posting the first bit now to encourage me to actually fucking finish it.
> 
> Title is from "Soft And Wet" by Prince, because it's hilarious, that's why.

Stiles is standing in the meat section of the supermarket, considering the merits of two different cuts of beef roast, when _Walking On Sunshine_ starts blaring from the general vicinity of his crotch. Setting the roasts back in the cooler, Stiles wipes his hands on his thighs and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t even look at the screen, just presses it to his ear.

“So, I’m torn between a prime rib and a sirloin.” He doesn’t bother with hello. Being literally raised by wolves apparently leads some people to ignore normal civil greetings ninety-nine percent of the time, so why waste his breath. “But they’re both on sale. I could get both, and freeze one, right? That makes sense.”

“Stiles, shut up.” Derek sounds like he hasn’t slept in a week, and decided to take up chain smoking and gargling glass instead, to while away those lonely, late night hours. It makes Stiles swallow in sympathy.

He’s pretty sure this _Tom Waits with strep throat_ thing is a very recent development, and that makes it more concerning. He saw Derek yesterday, and the guy had been fine.

“Dude, you sound like shit.”

“I know— You, you need to come to the house.” There’s a scuffle on the other end of the line, like something heavy being moved roughly around, and yeah, Stiles is getting legitimately freaked out now. Derek grunts like he’s been punched in the gut, and there’s an edge of panic in his ruined voice that has Stiles abandoning the meat cooler and starting towards the store entrance with long strides.

“Yeah,” he says, as a thousand different scenarios start playing out in his brain, each one more terrible than the last. Was it ghouls? Witches? Fucking kobolds again? “I’m on my way. Be there in fifteen, tops. Should I bring anything?” Like a bus ticket out of this freaking death trap of a town, even just for a vacation. A couple of weeks without something weird, pissed off, and deadly breathing down their necks.

The goddamn Nemeton is an aggravating son of a bitch. Like an asshole roommate that keeps having wild, unwelcome keggers and inviting the worst kind of creeps to trash the place.

“Just get over here,” Derek snaps, with what Stiles presumes is a mouthful of fangs, considering how he’s slurring now. “Because this is your goddamn fault, Stiles, and you’re going to fix it, or I swear to god—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” Stiles stalls in an aisle, surrounded by bags of dried pasta. He stops so abruptly that his sneakers shriek against the linoleum floor. “What the hell do you mean, my fault? What’s my fault? What’s going on?”

“Peter’s gone into rut.” The bottom of Stiles’ stomach swoops down to land somewhere near his feet, but no, that’s not possible. “And it hit him like a fucking _train_. He’s so far gone he’s non-verbal and tearing my house apart, so get your ass over here and talk him down—”

“I didn’t do anything!” Glancing up and down the aisle, Stiles gives epic stink eye to a middle-aged dude browsing the elbow macaroni, until the man tosses two boxes into his cart and flees down toward the jars of sauce. This isn’t a conversation that needs an audience.

“I _couldn’t_ do anything,” Stiles grits out between his teeth, turning to face the shelves and hunching over his phone for some illusion of privacy. “Even if I wanted to. I’m on suppressants— I’ve been on suppressants since I was _nine_.” Ever since his first heat triggered early, a couple of months after his mom died. His therapist recommended it to his dad, to help _reduce complications at this difficult time_. The pills are low dose, a fairly expensive brand that doesn’t interact badly with his Adderall and is thankfully covered by his dad’s insurance, and any longterm side effects are supposed to be minimal. Even after he stopped seeing that therapist, convincing his GP to keep writing prescriptions had been straightforward enough, so Stiles never stopped taking them.

“Well apparently they’re not working anymore!” Derek grunts again, cutting off his shouting in Stiles’ ear. “Fuck, _ah_ — because Peter— _stop, stop, put that down right now_ — Peter is prowling around, stealing every single blanket he can find. He’s got sheets, and comforters, all the couch cushions, _my_ pillows— _hey, no, that’s enough, you asshole_ — piled up in this goddamn _love nest_ he’s building. And he stinks so bad I’m going to need to reupholster everything after this, maybe even pull up the carpets. I’m never getting this smell out of my nose. I hate you both, so much.”

Throughout Derek’s increasingly shrill rant, Stiles had been trying very, very hard not to be charmed. Not even a little. Because this is not normal. This is not cute and sort of romantic, and it’s not making him feel squishy, or squirmy, or inordinately flattered. And it’s definitely not making something dark and hot throb low in his gut, like a filthy, delicious counterpoint to all that sweetness. None of that is happening.

“Okay, I’m going to say it louder for the people in the back,” Stiles says, even though he doesn’t actually raise his voice above a furtive whisper. “I am on suppressants, which I take religiously, like clockwork, every freaking day. Whatever the hell is going on with Peter, is not my fault. And anyway, if I had put him into a rut, I’d need to be going into heat, and I’m _not_ —”

“Are you kidding me?” Derek rasps out a harsh, almost hysterical laugh. “How do you not— you’ve been all over him for a week. You two couldn’t be in the same room together without making me want to gouge out my eyes at least once every ten minutes. Every time he sat down, I thought you were going to climb into his lap. Half the time you _did_.”

“Uh, dude, news flash? Your uncle is a grabby bastard who never keeps his hands to himself. And even if he wasn’t, I’ve got blanket permission to get all over that smoking hot bod pretty much whenever I want.” Stiles ignores Derek’s half-formed protest, barrelling on. “Have you see his arms? Or his ass? You guys are lucky I’m not just gnawing on his ridiculous neck, like, twenty-four seven.”

“Oh my _god_.” Derek makes a wounded noise, choking on air. “Stop. Just _stop_ , and listen to me. Why were you looking at beef roasts, when you’ve been harping about cutting back your dad’s red meat? What’s in your cart right now?”

Stiles doesn’t have a cart, he’s got a shopping basket still looped over his elbow, and he glances down with a bizarre sort of trepidation. As if he’s not sure what he’s going to see, even though he’s the one who grabbed it all off the shelves.

“Shit.” The word is out before he can swallow it back, and the sheer level of overbearing smugness suddenly radiating through his phone is nearly more than he can stomach.

“That’s what I thought,” Derek says, because Derek is a shithead and a beta, and doesn’t have to deal with this crap.

Stiles’ basket is weighted down and packed much fuller than he expected, or if he’s being honest with himself, fuller than he’d hoped. The pile of food, taken out of context, isn’t especially damning— greek yoghurt, dried fruit, fresh spinach, granola, protein bars, and peanut butter. All healthy, nutrient rich choices. Fairly normal.

What’s less normal are the amounts. He doesn’t need five boxes of protein bars, or three large tubs of yoghurt. And at what point did he think that six jars of peanut butter was a reasonable amount to buy at one time? It’s just him and his dad, and the occasional packmate wandering through the Stilinski house looking for a snack.

Three of the jars are labelled in green, and three of them are red. Because Peter’s a weirdo who thinks crunchy peanut butter is an abomination and an affront to basic decency.

“Shit,” Stiles says again, softer this time. “What if it’s… this doesn’t mean… I’m _not_.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Derek sighs, the insult lacking any bite, and it’s easy to imagine the weary way he’s probably rubbing at his forehead. “By the way, Malia and Lydia were here when Peter stormed in, already in full rut.”

Stiles snarls, loud and savage; someone in the next aisle gasps audibly, and the wheels of their cart rattle and squeak rapidly away. Malia’s not the reason his free hand is curled into a tight fist, bitten-down nails digging hard into his palm. She’s an omega too, but it is unbelievably rare for people to be affected by alpha or omega pheromones of their immediate family. And if by some chance they are influenced, it almost always manifests as an urge to protect, to coddle and care for, rather than anything sexual.

Lydia is a different story— an omega, one of the most breathtakingly amazing and gorgeous women Stiles has ever met, and right at this minute, _competition_.

“Oh yeah, you’re not in heat,” Derek says flatly. “What was I thinking. And before you ask, or wrap your Jeep around a tree trying to speed over here, Lydia’s long gone.”

Stiles doesn’t sag back against a shelf of oven-ready lasagna noodles, boneless with relief and the rush of adrenaline. He _doesn’t_.

“She got one whiff of Peter, and literally gagged,” Derek carries on, while Stiles just breathes for a minute. That was mortifying. What the hell? “He didn’t even look at her, but she couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Which I think also negates any half-assed excuses you might try to dream up about some other omega throwing him into rut, by mistake or otherwise.”

Other than Malia, Lydia, and him, there aren’t any other omegas in the pack, and Peter is one of only three alphas. Four, if you count Braeden as pack. The rest of them are all betas, which is to be expected, considering the beta population outnumbers the other dynamics combined. The generally accepted breakdown is something like two-thirds of people identifying as betas, with the remaining third split pretty much evenly between alphas and omegas.

Because of the suppressants, Stiles has spent most of his life basically living as a beta, enjoying a few fun extras without the hassle of worrying about his hormone cycles too often. And since it takes an exceptionally strong rush of pheromones for your average beta to identify a person’s dynamic by scent, he’s rarely been asked about it. Most betas, and thus most people, assume he’s a beta too, and that’s fine.

Weaker beta senses also mean most people assume they aren’t an open book to him— Jackson’s overbearing alpha swagger might be pretty convincing, but Stiles has known the guy's a beta since Junior High. Or, more specifically, he knows that Jackson doesn’t exude an ounce of alpha pheromones, or omega for that matter. Even on suppressants to keep his heats in check, Stiles still walks around in a haze of _eau de omega_ every day; it takes much higher doses of different sorts of blockers to stop that shit from happening.

Stiles might hate Jackson’s guts a lot of the time, mostly because the dude’s always been an arrogant, pretentious douchebag with a cruel streak a mile wide. But he’s never said anything to refute how Jackson presents himself to the world at large, and he likes to think he never would, no matter how much Jackson pisses him off. Some people’s dynamics don’t match their hormones. Maybe Jackson really is an alpha, regardless of biology. Doesn’t make him less of an asshole.

Derek’s a beta, but also a werewolf. His senses are pretty acute because of the latter, and he’s family, so it’s not shocking that he’s bothered by the scent of Peter’s rut. If this actually is a rut. Stiles is clinging to skepticism, even if he’s hanging on by his fingernails at the moment.

Of course, Lydia smelled it too, easily. There’s still some significant, occasionally almost homicidal tension between her and Peter, but the fact that she had such a viscerally bad reaction to whatever pheromones he’s giving off is… weird.

Stiles is determined to stick with _weird_. There might be better explanations, but they’re so absurd, they don’t bear thinking about. There are probably a dozen different reasons for an unbonded omega to get grossed out by the scent of an unbonded alpha’s rut.

It’s supposed to be a pleasant, soothing aroma, even if there’s zero sexual desire or intent. Even if the alpha and omega are perfect strangers, or mortal enemies. It’s _supposed_ to be a simple, unbiased biological reaction. Like how any omega should be able to calm an alpha in the throes of a rut, or any other situation where their baser instincts flare up to unmanageable levels.

Stiles used to have a synthetic rut inhaler, prescribed when he started having panic attacks, and he still remembers the warm, comforting rush. It’s not like it’s some kind of magic cure-all, but it did help keep him from fainting or having a full-on heart attack on a couple of occasions. He thinks it might still be kicking around somewhere in his room, probably crammed in the back of the drawer he tossed it in, after the first and only time Scott had gotten it mixed up with his Albuterol and almost died.

As it turns out, synthetic rut isn’t all that helpful for asthma. And when the asthmatic is an alpha like Scott? It makes things a thousand times worse. Stiles didn't take the chance of it happening again; he refused to let his own bullshit risk killing his best friend.

Maybe Lydia is just honestly so repulsed by Peter that he does smell awful to her, or more likely, she wanted to pretend he did. Maybe she didn't want to admit he could have the slightest effect on her outside of her conscious control, even though they had been making some slow strides toward a relative peace. That actually makes sense. It doesn’t have to mean that Peter is—

“And if Lydia couldn’t stand the stink of him either,” Derek says. “You have to get over here. If you and Peter started a bond, you need to—” Oh, that is not a road they’re going down. Not a chance.

“Put Peter on the phone,” Stiles says, too sharp to be polite.

“What?” Derek sounds completely thrown by the imperious interruption, faltering. “Stiles, I don’t think— Okay, you’re obviously not understanding what’s happening here. Peter isn’t talking. He’s basically just growling at this point, and he’s rounding on anyone that gets too close. Malia couldn’t calm him down at all. He actually bit me when I tried to take back my pillow. I nearly lost a thumb.”

“Derek.” The reality of this shitshow of a situation is finally kicking in, undeniably, and Stiles needs to hear Peter’s voice. “Just trust the omega, okay? Tell him it’s me, and give him the damn phone.”

“If he breaks it, I’m breaking you,” Derek says, followed by more shuffling in the background. “Peter? Peter, look, Stiles is on the phone, he wants to talk— _Jesus, shit_ —” Sounds of a struggle ensue, but it’s only a few harried seconds before Stiles has heavy, wet panting in his ear.

“Peter?” There’s a wordless murmur, deep and rumbling and so familiar, and Stiles closes his eyes briefly. “Hey there, wolf. How’re you feeling? You okay?”

Another rough rumble answers him, but this one is tinged with a whine, tapering off miserably at the end. It makes something in Stiles’ chest clench painfully, and before he can over think things, he’s abandoning his basket in the middle of the aisle and marching towards the entrance of the store. Hopefully somebody will find it before the yoghurt is unsalvageable, but he doesn’t currently have enough focus to spare to give a shit about that.

“I’m coming,” he says, as he weaves around a pair of women and four kids crossing the automatic doors. Both of the women noticeably sniff the air when he passes, and the shorter one with the bantu knots wrinkles her nose like she just got a whiff of something nasty. “Okay, Peter? I’m on my way.”

He’s fumbling his keys out of his pocket, eating up the distance to his car in hurried, unsteady steps, when a terrible thought hits him.

“But only if you want me to.” They’ve never talked about this. Ten months of dating, and a couple more months of whatever the hell they’d been doing before that (mostly dancing around each other and driving everyone in a hundred yard radius up the wall), and they’ve never seriously discussed what they’d want to do in case of a sudden rut or heat. Because Stiles is on suppressants that have never failed once in ten years, and Peter hasn’t gone into a rut since before the fire.

Not that the second thing is common knowledge. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure he’s the only living person Peter’s told.

“Peter, are you with me?” God, he needs a real answer here, because otherwise he can’t just waltz into the rebuilt Hale house and let nature take its course, or whatever. He needs to _know_ , and for that to happen, Peter needs to speak. “Say something, babe. You’re freaking me out here.”

“ _Stiles_.” It’s hoarse and strung out, like his name is gravel dragged over Peter’s tongue, but it’s a start. Stiles opens the door to his Jeep, climbing into the driver’s seat, but not sticking the key in the ignition. Not yet.

“Yeah, wolf, I’m here.” He has no idea what he’s going to do if Peter doesn’t want him to come over, or isn’t able to articulate. He’s going to stay away, obviously, but other than that? Probably an agonizing amount of pacing. Screaming into a pillow. Standing in his backyard and shouting obscenities at an uncaring universe. “Listen, I don’t… I don’t want to come over if that’s not what you want. If you want to handle this on your own, or whatever, that’s okay.”

Rubbing his hand over his jaw, Stiles pushes on through the tightness threatening to strangle his voice in his throat. “This is my fault, probably. Somehow. But you gotta know that I never meant to, and I’m so sorry. I’ll help, I swear to god I’ll fix this, if you want. Or if you want me to stay the hell away, for now or— fuck, or forever, I get it. I promise. I’ll do whatever you want, Peter, okay?”

“Stiles. Shut up.” Peter’s still doing the huffing breathing. It’s very similar to the way he sounds in the sweet, sticky afterglow of particularly enthusiastic sex, when he's usually panting against Stiles’ throat or the nape of his neck. It’s Pavlovian at this point: Stiles feels heat pooling in his boxers. He’s getting wet. “I want— So much. It’s so much. Want you here. I want you.”

Yeah, definitely getting wet. Stiles bites his lip hard enough that it nearly splits, holding back a shuddery moan. Now is not the time. He’s the omega here. It’s his responsibility to keep his head on straight when alphas get rut-drunk and loopy.

“Yeah, okay.” It’s good. It’s progress, and it might be all he’s able to get, but it’s still not enough. Stiles wants to scream, because Peter sounds desperate, and maybe a little anxious, and it’s all so _wrong_. “Okay, babe. I just… Can you remember, before the rut got this strong, did you still want me there? Please, Peter, tell me the truth?”

“Yes,” Peter hisses. “Always. Always you.” Shit, Peter is so rut-drunk, and Stiles feels like an enormous sleaze, but he starts the Jeep anyway.

“Babe, I’m putting you on speaker.” He thumbs the button to do that, and jams the phone into the cradle he’s got mounted to the dash. Peter’s the one who bought and installed the phone cradle, after the thing with the shtriga. In emergencies, Stiles can't be trusted not to use his cell when he’s driving, and it makes a vein in Peter's forehead visibly throb.

“You still with me? Hear me okay?” he asks as he peels out of the parking lot, and Peter hums a wordless affirmative. “Hey, did you really bite Derek?”

Peter’s answering growl is mostly a laugh, raspy but clearly amused, and that touch of normality is such a relief that Stiles can hardly breathe for a second. He’s never seen Peter in rut, and they’ve never really discussed it. Even if they had, Stiles isn’t sure he’d know what to expect anyway. Some alphas handle it better than others, while some get utterly devastated by their instincts. The ruts Peter remembers from his early twenties might be miles away from what’s happening now, especially after so long without experiencing one.

“Didn’t even want it,” Peter says, and it might be wishful thinking, but he sounds a bit clearer now that Stiles is talking him down. Still grumbly, not as articulate as normal, but less stoned out of his freaking mind on alpha juice. “The pillow, it reeks. Took it anyway. Tore it open, threw it out the window. Asshole deserved it.”

“Oh god,” Stiles says, choking on his own laughter, and heads toward the Preserve. Derek has gradually been embracing a less punishingly ascetic lifestyle over the last year or so, ever since he’d decided to sell his misery loft, buy back the Hale property, and rebuild. He isn’t in the same league as Peter when it comes to shameless hedonism, but he did shell out for some creature comforts, including very nice feather pillows. Very nice, very expensive feather pillows that had probably smelled at least a little like Braeden, which Peter wouldn’t be able to stand at the moment. “Man, you know, you could try to be nicer when you’re ransacking his house.”

“No,” Peter scoffs, and Stiles can hear him rustling around with something. “Said he was going to spray me with the hose, so. Lucky I didn’t tear _him_ open. I have… I needed to build. A safe place.” There’s a snarl, a thud, and then Peter’s speaking again. “Where are you? This is— fuck. This is so _stupid_. Why am I— stupid, so _idiotic_. Nothing’s right, the smells, and I can’t _think_ —”

Pressing down harder on the gas, Stiles silently begs any higher power that might be listening to please let him avoid getting pulled over by one of his dad’s deputies. Peter’s getting agitated again, and if Stiles gets caught in a traffic stop, even if it’s just a warning, he’s more than a little concerned that he’ll end up with a rut-drunk werewolf boyfriend hunting him down from across town. He’d rather not explain that while also trying to talk his way out of another speeding ticket.

“I’m nearly there,” Stiles says, which isn’t a lie, since he’s probably less than ten minutes away now, depending on whether or not he hits traffic. Or a speed trap. Still, it feels too far. “And it’s not stupid, what you’re doing. It’s good. Tell me about what you built—”

“Don’t fucking _patronize_ me!” Any louder, and that would have been a bone-rattling roar, not just a shout. As jarring as it is echoing through the cab of the Jeep, Stiles is immensely glad for speaker phone. He’s not a fan of tinnitus.

“ _Hey_ ,” he snaps, raising his own voice maybe half as much. The other end of the line is deathly silent. “Don’t even start that shit with me, Peter, I swear to god. I’m not patronizing you, for fucksake. I’m asking you what kind of den you think is good enough for this sweet little omega ass, because let me tell you, I’m expecting some quality here. Something worth my notice.”

It’s a gamble, but Stiles is running on a heady mix of impulse and instinct now.

“Somewhere I can get very, very comfortable. But only if you play your cards right.” His words are coming low and slow now, all sly and goading. “Impress me, alpha.”

Peter’s quiet for a moment, just long enough to make Stiles hyper-aware of his own hammering heartbeat. If playing to Peter’s primal drives to help him focus and calm down is a monumental misstep, he has no idea how to salvage this.

“You’re such,” Peter says finally. “Such a little shit. The worst.” And it’s perfect. It’s still _Peter_ , not just some grunting alpha knothead, falling all over himself to pander to his omega. Stiles has never wanted that crap. It’s one of the main reasons he’s stayed on suppressants for so long, when most omegas his age are more than eager to enjoy the less carnal benefits of their heats, even if they don’t want to get fucked until they can’t walk. A few days of getting doted on by any alpha in range, every three months or so, is supposed to be some kind of payoff for the period cramps, and the bloating, and everything else that’s sort of shitty about their dynamic.

Stiles can understand that it’s fun, and it’s not really hurting anybody, but it’s not his thing. His suppressants are gentle enough that he still sometimes deals with an overeager alpha holding doors for him or trying to pay for his coffee. It only happens rarely, but it’s ridiculous.

But Stiles is self-aware enough to grudgingly admit that it doesn’t seem quite as ridiculous when it’s Peter doing the indulgent alpha thing. It should be stupid— Peter’s apparently gone the old school, traditional route and decided to make a freaking _den_ , by stripping every soft surface in Derek’s house and piling his misappropriated loot into what Stiles can’t help but imagine as the classiest, most extravagant pillow fort known to modern man. God, it should be laughable, but Stiles’ knuckles are bleached white where he’s gripping the steering wheel, and a glance in the rear-view mirror confirms that the warmth crawling up his face is a splotchy pink flush. He’s itchy, and so slick that he won’t be surprised if he leaves a goddamn wet spot on the seat, even through his boxers and pants.

“Yeah. But I’m so cute, though,” Stiles says, turning off the paved road and onto the packed dirt of Preserve. The new Hale house isn’t built over the foundations of the old, literally or figuratively, but it’s still in the middle of freaking nowhere. “C’mon, wolf, what’d you make me? Is it nice? Does it have Netflix?”

“Wait and see, brat.”

“Aw, tell me!” Sucking his top lip for a second, Stiles can taste salt. He’s sweaty. His shirt clings damply to the small of his back every time he shifts gears. “Tell me, Peter, tell me, tell me—”

“Not going to work,” Peter says, and it sounds like he’s smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief discussion of sexual dysfunction.

Seven minutes of teasing conversation later, and Stiles is pulling up beside Peter’s haphazardly parked Lexus, yanking his phone out of its cradle and trying not to land on his face when he stumbles out of the car.

“Okay, okay I’m here,” he starts to say, but the call disconnects, and a loud bang makes his head whip up.

Peter’s standing on the big, wrap-around porch, with the front doors flung wide open behind him. His hair is a tousled mess, and he’s wearing baggy grey sweatpants and red t-shirt that’s straining across his chest. A shirt which, on second glance, turns out to be very familiar.

The dude’s dressed in his usual lazy morning gear, including one of the shirts that had migrated out of Stiles’ closet over the past few months. It’s not an outfit that ever steps foot outside of Peter’s apartment. The fact that it’s here, now, makes Stiles’ brain seize up.

Peter apparently drove all the way over to Derek’s in quite a rush, if he didn’t even bother to throw on a pair of jeans. Or shoes. _Jesus Christ._

The smell of the shirt might have been what pushed him into rut, and while one part of Stiles wants to crow about that, he mostly just feels a sour twist of guilt. This is his fault, even if it wasn’t on purpose.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Stiles says, slipping his phone into his jeans. Peter is breathing through his mouth, panting, but not making another move. His eyes are bright, but there’s no preternatural glow lighting them up. It’s just the rut, which Stiles can smell already, drifting through the fresh forest air.

It’s musky, deep and earthy, with strange, sharper notes that remind Stiles of pepper and cinnamon, without actually smelling like either. Similar to every rut he’s ever smelled, synthetic or otherwise, but uniquely Peter. And also a _thousand_ times more enticing than he expected.

There’s actually slick sliding down his thighs as he takes some slow, measured steps toward the house. It tickles as it dribbles out of him, like he’s the omega in some trashy A/O romance novel.

He can smell himself too; it saturated the inside of the Jeep on the drive over, cloying in his sweat and his slick. It’s also musky, but more metallic than the loamy scent of Peter’s rut. Faintly sweet, with an overarching tang that’s almost like brine. He wonders if it smells the same to an alpha.

It can’t smell too gross, considering how fervently Peter’s scenting the air, and licking his bottom lip like he’s trying to catch a taste. When Stiles starts coming up onto the porch, Peter makes a long, low noise in the back of his throat, almost a purr, but still stays put, waiting. His hands are loose at his sides, not clenched or clawed, but his shoulders are hunched. He looks tense as a piano wire.

“Easy,” Stiles says, stepping off the stairs and onto the same level as Peter. They’re barely three feet away from each other, and Stiles stretches out one of his arms. “Wanna come here— whoa, hey!”

Werewolf reflexes are the only reason he doesn’t end up toppling back down the stairs when Peter surges forward. The sudden movement makes Stiles jerk back, and maybe he’s feeling a tiny bit dizzy from the suffocating miasma of pheromones, because his backward shuffle nearly sends him ass over tits into the dirt. Except there’s an arm locked around his waist, easily hauling him to solid footing like he’s a sack of feathers, not a flailing mess of limbs.

Peter always runs hot— it’s like having a big, clingy electric blanket every time one of them sleeps over, which is most nights— but pulled up tight against his chest now, Stiles can safely say the dude’s running a fever. Probably not worryingly high for a werewolf, and pretty much to be expected.

Stiles is already sweating, and he’s got the single worst case of swamp ass he’s ever experienced, but this kind of strong, enveloping warmth isn’t stifling. It’s exactly what his body wants, and he’s curling closer before his brain catches up, humming contentedly with his nose pressed against Peter’s temple.

He comes back to his senses in a rush, embarrassed and frustrated with himself, but it’s cool, it’s fine, he’s still got a handle on this. He’s also got Peter nuzzling his neck, and the guy hasn’t said one word yet, but that’s okay for the moment, too.

“You with me, wolf?” Gently, he combs his fingers back through Peter’s hair, smoothing it down where it’s wild and wayward. It’s damp, probably with sweat, and it twists into loose curls without any of Peter’s overpriced product holding it in place.

Peter grunts, dragging his wet mouth softly over Stiles’ throat, licking his Adam’s apple. It makes Stiles’ knees tremble.

“Nope,” he says, instead of tipping his head back and letting Peter go to town like he wants to do. He tugs at the hair in his grip, and Peter only resists for a moment before drawing back where Stiles directs him. His lips are split slick and pink, sinfully pretty, and it takes an enormous amount of self control for Stiles not to lean in and bite them.

“Words, Peter. Gotta talk to me.” His own voice is husky and strained, but he still needs Peter to speak. “Come on, you’ve always got something to say, smartass.”

“Pot,” Peter rasps, which doesn’t make any sense until he follows it up with: “Kettle. I— I’m fine. Better. You smell… It’s good. Settling.”

He presses a relatively chaste kiss against Stiles’ wrist, which is held at just the right angle while Stiles grips his hair. When he keeps talking, his lips brush teasingly over delicate blue veins and thin skin. “Smells so ripe, sweetheart. So wet. Lush, perfect little omega.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , this is some kind of sick cosmic joke. Somehow, Stiles is supposed the responsible adult here, while his illegally hot, _legally intoxicated_ boyfriend molests his erogenous zones with surgical precision and whispers fucking softcore porn dialogue.

“Everything’s getting clearer,” Peter continues, calmer, and nips lightly at the heel of Stiles’ hand. His eyes are half-lidded and dark with blown pupils, but when he looks up and meets Stiles’ gaze, they’re focused. Not vacant or glassy. “May I kiss you?”

“No,” Stiles says too quickly, and manages not to backpedal immediately when Peter’s expression falls. He cups Peter’s stubbly jaw with both hands, not letting him retreat. “No, listen. It’s _no_ for now, babe, okay? But I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to do your alpha sniffing thing for a while, get some nice Stiles-smell up in there and try to clear your head some more. Then, once you’re a little less trashed, we’re going to talk.”

Peter looks ready to argue, because of course he does— he’s a stubborn, bossy prick when he’s not in rut, and the extra testosterone certainly isn’t going to fix that. But he’s never pushy about sex, except in all the ways Stiles asks for enthusiastically. It’s a relief when he backs down without a word, just as suddenly as he’d started to rile up.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, heaving a sullen sigh, but he doesn’t try to lean into Stiles’ neck again. “Want me to recite the alphabet? Stand on one leg?”

“I want you to show me you’re not all talk.” Stiles rubs his thumbs against the grain of Peter’s stubble. The rasp makes him shiver, reminding him of how fantastic it feels against his thighs. “I told you already, this omega doesn’t roll over easy. You’ve got to impress me. Show me what you got, big guy.”

It seems like a good idea at the time: give Peter something to distract him while Stiles’ heat builds up and his pheromones work to sober the rut symptoms. It’s a delicate balance, where Stiles is supposed to get looser and less inhibited once he’s decided that he’s receptive to an alpha’s advances, while Peter gradually steadies from his weird, rut-drunk courting instincts back into a reasonable, but very horny alpha.

Stiles just has to wait it out, and that means no straight up jumping on Peter’s dick, no matter how much he wants to. And if he’s not satisfied that Peter’s sober enough, they’re just going to have to settle for cuddles until the heat and the rut pass on their own. However fucking long that takes. Stiles has never done this before; he’s got no basis for comparison.

But Peter didn’t ask for Stiles to get all hormone-happy and supercharge his libido. So now, if this is going to happen, they’re going to talk about it first, like they should have done before. Like adults.

Grumpy, sexually frustrated adults in soggy underwear. Fuck.

Yeah, poking the bear a bit seems like a good distraction technique. It’s also how Stiles ends up hoisted over Peter’s shoulder and carried inside the house, without so much as a friendly warning that his feet are about to leave the ground, and the world is about to tilt on its axis.

“Son of a bitch!” He wheezes, trying to catch his breath while he’s slung upside down from the waist up. Peter’s hand is wrapped around the back of his thigh, holding him steady and squeezing the muscle, but not sliding any higher. It’s restrained, but miles away from innocent. Even that far down his legs, his jeans are damp, and now his sloppy crotch is inches away from Peter’s face.

Stiles complains for show, slaps Peter on the ass because it’s right there, but doesn’t legitimately struggle. He waves when they pass Derek in the hallway, en route to upstairs.

“Hey, buddy!” It’s honestly surprising that the wrath in Derek’s glare isn’t melting the paint from the walls. He’s holding the shredded remains of a chocolate brown pillowcase, dotted with downy white feathers. He’s also got a few feathers in his hair and clinging to his shirt, and there’s a little fluffy one stuck to his eyebrow.

“Seriously, Peter,” Derek yells, and his voice cracks as he shakes the poor pillow’s desecrated corpse. Peter’s already blown by him, without sparing a glance.

“Hey, you wanna call my dad,” Stiles yells back, while Peter lugs him up to the second floor. “Tell him I’m not gonna be home tonight! Thanks, D!”

Derek’s answer is a furious roar, but Stiles isn’t concerned. No matter how pissed he is, Derek will call his dad, if only to make sure the Sheriff doesn’t worry.

There are a bunch of bedrooms upstairs, enough for the entire pack to bunk down at once if they ever need to, but it’s only Derek and Cora who live here full-time. Plus Braeden when she’s in town, and Isaac, on some kind of coparent-esque custody sharing system with the McCalls. Everybody else comes and goes less frequently, but they all hang out here, and sometimes it’s easier to just stumble upstairs, flop down on the nearest horizontal surface, and grab some shut eye instead of heading home.

Peter carries Stiles into the bedroom at the end of the north hallway, which to be fair, is the one they usually sleep in when they end up staying over at Derek’s for whatever reason. It’s not like Peter’s bogarting someone else’s space. Just, you know, all of their blankets.

The room is dark, with the curtains drawn tight and no lights turned on, and it gets even darker when Peter shuts the door behind them before he finally sets Stiles back on his feet.

“Human vision, kinda shit in pitch dark,” Stiles reminds the room at large, and feels a huff of hot breath against his cheek.

“Impatient.” There’s no light immediately forthcoming, just the press of Peter’s hands, herding him farther into the room. Coming from the sunny midday outside, Stiles is honestly pretty damn blind at the moment. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a good feeling. He’s too well acquainted with the kind of nightmarish things that lurk in shadows, and total darkness feels claustrophobic to him, like the void is pressing in, suffocating. But right at this minute, his anxiety is apparently taking a backseat to his instincts. A dark, warm space closed off from the world, filled with Peter’s scent and the bulk of his body, sounds like a great plan. The constant touch of strong, familiar hands helps keep him anchored.

Peter’s guiding him, and Stiles isn’t worried about falling. Any other time, Peter would be content to watch and laugh as Stiles tripped over dirty clothes, piles of books, or his own feet, only stepping in when warranted by real danger. Today, however, the protective alpha schtick probably doesn’t extend to dickish amusement at Stiles’ natural clumsiness.

Their progress stops when Stiles’ heels hits something sturdy but soft, and he lets Peter ease him down to sit on what feels like a mattress. It’s much lower than he expects the bed to be. Before he can investigate, Peter’s urging him to scoot backward, until Stiles is fully sprawled across some very cushy blankets, with what feels like a mountain of pillows piled up behind his shoulders.

“Stay,” Peter says, giving Stiles’ ankle a squeeze before leaving him completely untethered for the first time since Stiles stepped foot on the porch and got himself a werewolf barnacle. There’s a rustling of fabric, the sound of Peter moving around, and then a click that turns out to be a lamp being turned on. The light is very dim, diffused through what looks like at least two layers of cotton sheets, but it’s good enough.

Great news, Stiles can see again. And more specifically, he can see that he’s genuinely inside a _blanket fort_. Built on top of a queen-sized mattress that doesn’t seem to be on its frame anymore. There’s no headboard or footboard, just a dome of sheets layered over what looks like curving tent poles, which are wrapped in strands of little white fairy lights. They light up after another few seconds, illuminating the interior of the fort with a soft, ethereal glow. It’s classy, and weirdly elegant for a blanket fort, because of course it is. Even rut-drunk, this is Peter.

An excessive number of pillows are piled into a plush, welcoming nest, more than large enough for two grown men to curl up together. And down beyond the foot of the mattress, still caged within the sheet walls but pushed out far enough to be fairly safe from any potential mishaps, is a freaking flat screen television. Not the one from the living room, or even Peter’s apartment— this one is smaller than either of those. Where the hell did Peter get his hands on a thirty-two inch TV?

Holy shit. Somebody’s certainly been busy.

Peter is a shadow moving outside the vaulting, patchwork walls, but then he slips inside again, through a narrow flap that’s been left hanging open. Presumably the same place Stiles had just been led through.

He doesn’t crawl up the mattress like Stiles expects him to do. He hesitates, kneeling on the foot of the bed. Luckily, Stiles has had plenty of practice interpreting various shades of Hale stoicism, including Peter’s bevy of microexpressions and subtly distinct poker faces.

“C’mere, wolf.” He pats the blankets next to his hip, and the invitation seems to be exactly the thing Peter’s waiting for.

Prowling closer, Peter moves with fluid grace and toned muscle shifting under thin t-shirt material. One of his hands curls around Stiles’ calf, firm and hot like a brand even through denim. Stiles swallows tightly before reaching out, peeling that tempting touch away before it can sneak up past his knee. He laces their fingers together instead, stretching out his other arm and letting Peter wedge himself against Stiles’ ribs.

Peter feels like a furnace, and the air is so close, humid and heavy under the shelter of draped sheets. It’s surprising that Peter can stand it, honestly— he’s always a shameless cuddler, and never complains about Stiles’ octopus limbs, but he hates anything that makes him feel boxed in, like heavy blankets, or even too many closed windows. He never leaves curtains or drapes shut, if he can help it. His apartment windows all have pale, gauzy blinds, and they’re kept open all the time, no matter how much Stiles gripes about voyeuristic neighbours at night, or the glare of the sun in the early morning.

On a normal day, Peter would despise this stuffy little den. It seems like Stiles isn’t the only one being inundated by weird instincts.

“Okay, so I’m actually more impressed than I thought I’d be,” Stiles says, while Peter gets busy nuzzling, rubbing his face along Stiles’ collarbone and into his armpit. “I mean, I knew you were crafty in that hella shady, devious sort of way that gives Scott indigestion—”

“Could you shut up,” Peter grumbles, gnawing gently at Stiles’ shoulder through the layers of his shirts. “This is a McCall free zone.” Yeah, maybe talking about other alphas isn’t the best idea, if Stiles’ goal is to calm Peter down.

“But not _crafty_ -crafty,” Stiles carries on, as if Peter didn’t speak. He takes the request to heart, though: no more Scott-talk. “This is downright cozy. And it hasn’t even collapsed and smothered us yet, so double kudos to you, alpha mine.”

“Does it meet my darling omega’s exacting standards?” Peter’s preening from the praise and the endearment, even if he’s trying to be cool about it. The exaggeratedly sarcastic tone is totally a front. Stiles knows these things.

“It might.” He starts stroking Peter’s back with his free hand, slow and soothing over the breadth of his shoulders. “The company’s not too terrible, either.”

“I’m better company naked.” It’s impossible to ignore the rigid line of Peter’s erection, especially since he’s grinding it against Stiles’ thigh in short, jerky bursts. He’s clearly holding back, though, not making any attempt to start up the filthy, insistent rhythm that’s already thrumming through Stiles’ veins. The little twitches of his hips make Stiles cramp, make him clench around nothing. Being empty _hurts_ , especially with Peter so close and so warm, reeking of rut. The ache is bone-deep and hungry, but it’s not unbearable.

Unfortunately, _naked_ sounds like an incredibly good idea at the moment, and that’s a bad sign if Stiles is planning to maintain any sort of control over this situation. His skin is already getting too sensitive. He barely remembers the first and only heat he’s ever gone through, but he’s read enough to know that this is normal. Unpleasant, but perfectly normal. His jeans are starting to scrape like sandpaper, especially where they’re stuck to the tender insides of his thighs, soaked through and clinging with slick. The collar of his t-shirt is some kind of torture device, choking him with light, relentless pressure.

Stiles wants to be naked. Peter wants to be naked with him. Usually, this isn’t even a little bit of a problem.

“Keep your pants on,” he says, and while he makes a punt at sounding amused, he lands too close to desperate. It garners the wrong sort of attention, as Peter sits up, braced on one elbow, and studies Stiles’ face. Calculating, but genuinely concerned. Stiles looks away, turning his head to one side, but he can still feel Peter’s eyes trailing over him like a physical caress.

“Stiles?”

“Man, this is a great fort. Den. Whatever. Did I mention that yet?”

“Stiles.”

“I mean, it’s so soft. I could totally get my nap on in here, all cozy and shit. Or hey, I was serious about the Netflix, and I assume that TV isn't just for show. You wanna? Yeah, c’mere and snuggle up babe, let’s chill and—”

Stiles will deny to his dying day that the noise he makes when Peter straddles him is anywhere close to a shriek. It is definitely not a shriek, or a squeal. A shout, maybe.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter says, laying his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and pressing him flat. Being held down by Peter is pretty much always good, but right now, it’s the freaking best thing ever, and Stiles grits his teeth against the urge to spread his legs and keen. “Calm down.”

“We can’t do this,” Stiles blurts out, and Peter stares down at him for a moment longer, before closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath.

“Okay.” There’s a pause, during which a grimace flickers over Peter’s face, scrunched up and pained. It’s there and gone in an instant, smoothing back down into a neutral expression before he finally opens his eyes again. “That’s okay.”

“It’s—” It’s _not_ okay; Stiles feels like a complete shitheel, but he knows he’ll feel worse afterward if he doesn’t put the brakes on this. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Peter rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over the angular juts of Stiles’ clavicle, fingers working against his shoulders in an impromptu massage. “Absolutely nothing, my sweet boy.” He leans in slowly, as if he’s worried about spooking Stiles, and presses a brief kiss to his forehead.

Even that chaste little touch makes Stiles flush, makes him want to peel himself bare and drag Peter down in a messy tangle of limbs. He doesn’t mean to whimper, to let the wounded little sound quiver out from the back of his throat; Peter jerks back like he’s been burnt. Before Stiles can say anything, Peter is scrambling away, hunkering down into a crouch at the foot of the bed again. The sudden distance is physically painful, making Stiles’ skin sting like a sunburn.

“I want,” Peter starts to say, then growls quietly under his breath, and begins again. “I have to go out. Go run. Will you stay here? In here, where it’s—” Another grimace, this one tinged with disgust. “ _Safe_. Fuck.”

“Run?” A rush of panic has his pulse rabbiting, and words are spilling out of him without consideration. “Where? No, no, I don’t want you to go. Peter—”

“ _Stop_.” Stiles doesn’t realise he’s moving forward until Peter’s rearing back, eyes wide and hunted. The space between them is half what it was a split second ago; Stiles’ fingers dig into the blankets, holding himself in place. “Stiles, darling, please.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Yeah, absolute shitheel, thy name is Stiles Stilinski. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I have to go,” Peter says again, strained; Stiles’ stomach knots, but he keeps it to himself this time. “I’ll run the Preserve. I need— I’m going to run. To kill something. Stay here.”

“Yeah.” Stiles takes a steadying breath, which is a terrible idea. Another dose of Peter’s rut does nothing for the ache between his legs. “Okay, yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter looks like he wants to say something else, but he shuffles quickly out of the blanket fort instead. He’s at the bedroom door in an instant, but not before Stiles’ head is popping out of the draped sheets.

“Peter?” There’s a faint scraping sound, and Stiles guesses it’s claws against wood, but Peter’s blocking his view. He stopped at the sound of Stiles’ voice, but he doesn’t turn around, just waits, facing the closed door. “I’m just… I love you, okay?”

“I’m not upset,” Peter says, without moving an inch. When he speaks again, every word is slow, methodical, like he’s expending a great deal of effort to articulate his thoughts. Agitation is obviously playing hell with any eloquence Stiles’ presence had helped him gain back. “I’m not— Give me an hour. I need to run, work off some tension, and I’ll be back. I’ll be able to handle it. I know, I know you’re scared, baby, I know, but we don’t have to go through with anything. Just because it worked, doesn’t mean we have to.”

Peter’s been pretty fucking loopy for a while now, but even when he was grunting and growling on the phone, he’d made more sense than the second half of that monologue. Stiles runs through the last couple of minutes again, trying to parse what just happened.

“Peter—” Something isn’t sitting right, and it feels very important, even if he’s not sure why. Peter whines, breathy and shuddering.

“I can’t, right now, I _can’t_ — Please, baby, I’ll be back. Soon.”

“Hang the fuck on!” Peter’s back curls at the order, hunching over as he snarls wordlessly— he doesn’t _need_ to listen to Stiles, but the rut makes him _want_ to please his omega. It’s not fair to use that against him like this, and Stiles certainly feels slimy about doing it, especially when Peter’s obviously uncomfortable. But damn it, something is really not okay here.

“Peter.” Stiles doesn’t get off the mattress, even if it is awkward to kneel there, hanging out of the fort. He doesn’t want Peter to feel cornered. “What do you mean, _just because it worked_? What worked?”

“Your _heat_.” Peter’s forehead thumps against the door. “Fuck. A bit past the willful ignorance now, aren’t we? Not that the effort… _fuck_. Not that it wasn’t appreciated.”

“What?” Stiles sits back on his heels. “Okay, I know you wanna go, but we’re talking about this. You stay over there, I’ll stay over here. What the hell are you talking about, willful ignorance?”

It’s fairly impressive that Peter can effectively communicate an eyeroll, even with his back turned. Or maybe it’s impressive that Stiles can recognise it, just looking at the back of Peter’s head.

“Jesus Christ,” Peter says, forehead thudding twice more before he finally turns, pressing his back against the door and sliding down to sit on the floor. Even in the dim light of the room, Stiles can see the red flush crawling up his neck. “Your heat, genius. Triggered my rut. You didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything, in case it didn’t work. In case I _couldn’t_.”

There’s something immensely fragile lurking in Peter’s voice, under the annoyance at Stiles’ insistence that he stick around, and the roughness from the rut. Something that Stiles isn’t sure he would have been allowed to hear, if Peter was at his best.

Stiles might be getting a little fuzzy around the edges the longer he marinates in Peter’s rut and his own heat, but he can still put these pieces together. Even if the results are not even remotely what he expected.

“You— Peter, you knew?” It’s a leap, but not an enormous one. Peter is a thirty-something year old alpha; of course he’d recognize the signs. “You _knew_ I was going into heat?”

Peter’s head is tilted back against the door, with his eyes closed, his hands clenched on his own thighs, and a massive boner tenting his sweats. It’s like the most sexually frustrated meditation Stiles has ever seen. Stiles’ question makes him look over, eyes gleaming.

“Yes.” He draws the word out, rising at the end, but not quite a question. More like he’s waiting for Stiles to finish a punchline. Then he stops, and slowly cocks his head. Stiles can pinpoint the precise moment that Peter comes to a realisation too.

“Stiles,” Peter says, quiet and disbelievingly. “Sweetheart, did you think I didn’t notice?”

“ _I_ didn’t notice!” Admitting that he’d been so profoundly out of touch with his own body is more embarrassing than he’d anticipated. “I didn’t— I didn’t _realize_. I haven’t had a heat in years. I don’t remember what it feels like, and you never said anything, and— I’m on suppressants, for fucksake!”

“Still?” Peter sounds totally shocked now. “You’re still taking your suppressants?”

“Yes!” Anger rises in him like a roaring tide: it’s righteous and legitimate indignation, bolstered by the mercurial shifts in moods his heat is encouraging. Peter’s rut should be soothing him, but neither one of them is exactly calm at the moment. “What, you think I’d just stop taking them, and not even mention it to you? Seriously?”

It hurts, actually, that Peter would assume he’d do something like that. Stiles snarls, at least as loud and vicious as he’d done in the supermarket, and retreats into the fort. Yanking quilts out of the way, he burrows underneath a few layers of blankets and wedges himself into the mound of various pillows piled at the head of the mattress. Wrapping himself up like this helps calm the skittish, untethered agitation starting to mount in him; the den is secure and small, and smells like pack. Like safety, and family, and the rich, heady comfort of alpha rut. It’s still good, even if Peter is a dick.

“Stiles?” Speak of the devil: apparently Peter didn’t take the opportunity to bolt. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or annoyed about that.

“Fuck off, Peter.” Stiles considers throwing a pillow, but with his luck, he’d miss and bring the whole damn fort down on his own head. “I wouldn’t stop taking my pills without telling you, asshole. And why the hell didn’t you say anything, about my heat? About any of this?”

“I thought—” The mattress dips. Stiles can feel Peter moving around, wisely keeping some distance between them. He doesn’t unearth his head from the blankets. “You’re angry. With me.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“I want to explain.” Peter’s voice is limned with a definite growl, frustrated. “Listen. You started a week ago, week and a half. More touching, smelling sweeter, _encouraging_.”

“Pre-heat,” Stiles says quietly. Meant to coax a willing alpha partner into a rut. He can look back now and recognise it— he’s been getting hungrier, handsier, hornier. He’d been at the supermarket that morning because he absolutely decimated the fridge and the pantry at his house over the past few days, mowing through groceries like it was his job. And he’s been all over Peter like white on rice, even more so than usual. But at the time, in the moment, none of it had seemed that weird. God, he feels like such an idiot.

“Wolf, why… why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you were doing it on purpose.” Something touches Stiles foot through the barrier of blankets. It feels like a hand resting on his ankle, and he doesn’t kick it away. Peter isn’t grabbing, just anchoring. “I thought… I didn’t know if I could, if the rut would come, and if I _couldn’t_ — it was easier not to talk about it. Would’ve been easier, if I couldn’t give you what you wanted. We could just ignore it. Quiet failure, then continue on like we have been, no need to drag anything out. I thought that was your plan, too.”

“You thought—” Stiles sits up, pushing one hand back through the staticky mess of his hair, and stares down at Peter. Peter stares back from his seat halfway up the mattress, almost challenging, but there’s tension in his jaw and the lines around his eyes that screams discomfort. “You thought I had a plan. That I wanted you to go into rut, but neither one of us was saying anything about it, just in case.”

“In case I was _broken_.” Peter’s eyes flash electric blue, stark and cold compared to the friendly glow of the lights, before simmering down again. “I wanted to share your heat. Wanted to give that to you. I thought you wanted it too, so I let you try. Didn’t think it would work, at first. I couldn’t feel it, not until after a few days. Even then, I wasn’t sure it was coming on properly. It was slower than I remembered.”

“Yeah, well, cut yourself some slack, old man. You’re not as young as you used to be.” It’s a bad joke, in very poor taste, especially considering the years Peter lost to his coma, and the absence of his ruts afterward. But it prompts a huffy little laugh, anyway; Peter always thinks Stiles’ lack of tact is funny, even when it’s directed at him. “Just... damn it, wolf, c’mere.”

Stiles pushes down the blankets and opens his arms, but Peter is more cautious in his approach this time. His attention doesn’t waver from studying Stiles’ face, even as he crawls closer, and gingerly slots himself into a loose embrace. It’s obvious that he can’t quite stop himself from sniffing, though, once Stiles’ throat is right there in front of him.

“For an evil genius,” Stiles says, cupping one hand around the back of Peter’s neck and pressing his own nose into the thick alpha scent of Peter’s sweaty hair. “You’re so stupid sometimes. Like, painfully, _agonizingly_ dumb.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but he does grumble, snuffling against Stiles’ collarbone. He digs his fingers into Stiles’ ribs, not hard enough to hurt, pulling them closer together. Then, without any warning at all, Peter goes stiff as a board— not just his dick, which admittedly hasn’t softened at all, but his entire body.

“You didn’t know.” He tries to back up, but Stiles responds by going full-on octopus, clinging with all his limbs. “Stiles, let me go. You didn’t— I thought you _knew_ —”

“I know now.” Werewolf strength and reflexes mean Peter’s completely capable of peeling Stiles off like an old band-aid, with basically zero effort and very little risk of injury. Stiles has a pretty good feeling his alpha isn’t going to struggle that hard. “Babe, stop it. _Stop_ , listen to me. I knew when Derek called me, and I came over here anyway. I knew, before I got one whiff of your rut, so I was totally clear-headed. Or as clear-headed as I get, right? I wanted to be here, with you. I want this.”

“You didn’t,” Peter says, still holding himself taut, but at least he’s not wriggling anymore. “A minute ago— _we can’t do this_ , you said.”

“Yeah, when I thought I’d basically roofied you with my heat! When I thought _you_ didn’t know—”

“What.” It’s pure scorn, without even the barest implication of a question mark to soften it. Peter’s lip curls, sneering. “Are you… What crap are they teaching kids in school these days? _Roofied_ me?”

“Oh my god, you realise you sound like ninety years old right now—”

“Shut up.” A hand claps over Stiles’ mouth, and holy hell he wants to lick it, but the flinty, possibly homicidal glimmer in Peter’s eyes convinces him to refrain. “It’s not— Stiles, honey, you can’t force me into rut. Not possible. It takes days of pre-heat, a willing alpha, sometimes _luck_ , for fucksake. Roofied me. Jesus.”

“I was worried, asshole,” Stiles tries to say, then repeats it when Peter stops muzzling him. He already feels like a moron, and Peter’s derisive tone isn’t helping, even if it’s not exactly surprising. Rut isn’t going to magically make him not a bastard.

“I was worried, asshole! This whole time I’ve been _this close_ to climbing you like a fucking tree, okay? I am in actual physical pain right now from how much I wanna get all up on your business. But none of that fucking mattered, ‘cause I was trying to do the halfway decent thing while you were out of your mind. Excuse me for giving a shit.”

“I appreciate your concern for my virtue, baby.” Peter’s smirk is infuriating, while the hand suddenly grabbing Stiles’ ass stirs up some different feelings. Seriously, _bastard_. “Now, correct your stupid, rut-drunk alpha, if I’ve got this wrong. I’m in rut right now, very willingly. It certainly smells like someone’s in heat. And willing, too. Both of us, willing. _Eager_ , even.”

Stiles can’t really help it: his hips tilt into Peter’s tightening grip, thighs spreading. He whines, and Peter answers with a deep growl. The sound rolls over him in a wave, dark and sweet like hot fudge; Stiles can feel himself melting.

“What do you think, baby,” Peter murmurs, dragging Stiles even closer, until their noses brush. He’s kneading Stiles’ asscheek through his damp jeans, slowly teasing lower. “May I kiss you now? Or you want to talk more?”

Maybe they should; this has been a clusterfuck from the start, and things are only starting to get cleared up now. Stiles could still shut this shit down with one word. It would probably be the mature, sensible thing to do.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, but it’s mostly lost in the crush of his mouth against Peter’s smug, shiteating smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: next chapter is going to be a lot of sex. Wet, messy omegaverse sex. Up until this point, however, I’ve been really ambiguous about Stiles’ genitals. This is where another part of that “non-traditional a/b/o” tag comes into play. 
> 
> Going forward, it’s going to become crystal clear that Stiles has a relatively small penis, a lubricating vagina-equivalent slit between his dick and asshole, and a self-lubing asshole as well. Internal testicles, as well as ovaries. This is the ‘typical’ anatomy I’m going with in terms of cis male omegas (who, if they are fertile with fully-functioning reproductive systems, can get pregnant, and also have a very, very small chance of being able to impregnate somebody). And cis female alphas like Braeden have a pseudo-phallus structure, for the record (similarly, they can impregnate, and on rare occasion become pregnant). In terms of reproduction and evolution, this setup makes sense to me (or some sense anyway). I’m not tagging it as “boypussy” because that’s not my intention. There will be no feminization of Stiles, as a kink or otherwise.
> 
> I know this isn’t going to be everybody’s cup of tea, and hey, if it’s not your thing, no worries. I feel like I’ve written the end of Chapter 2 in a way that can serve as the end of the story, if you don’t care to read any further. There hasn’t been any sex yet, but the conflict has been largely resolved. 
> 
> If this kind of omegaverse sounds like your thing, though, stay tuned. Sloppy omega sex, coming up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: omega reproductive anatomy in this AU is detailed in the endnote of Chapter 2.

Once they start kissing, Stiles goes from sticky and miserable in his jeans, to entirely, rapturously naked, in very short order. Peter strips him with insistent, efficient hands, but every drag of his palms over Stiles’ bare skin feels reverent, as though Peter’s marvelling at each newly exposed inch.

Peter already has intimate knowledge of all the crevices and creases of Stiles’ body, but he’s surveying him now like he’s never seen him before. Like this is brand new.

It should be embarrassing, probably, or at least weird, but Stiles is too turned on to worry about it.

“Gorgeous,” Peter says, smoothing his hands slowly down Stiles’ chest and stomach. He watches avidly, with his eyes blown black, as Stiles’ back bows in a high, desperate arch, seeking more. “Perfect boy.”

“Peter, shit—” The sheet under his back feels smooth and soft, much nicer than his scratchy clothes had been, and Peter’s skin against his own feels even better. More skin would be preferable. “Babe, c’mon, please.”

Stiles paws ineffectually at the hem of Peter’s shirt, which he’s still wearing for some ridiculous fucking reason. The efforts lose any hope of success, or even reasonable dexterity, when Peter licks a trail up the side of Stiles’ neck and catches his earlobe between his teeth.

It’s called _heat_ for a reason. Warmth spreads out from everywhere Peter’s touching him; it’s like sinking into a hot bath, easing the tightness from his muscles and making him groan. He’s a puddle of sensation, and Peter’s the one tossing in stones, making him ripple. It’s blissful already, but at the same time, Stiles can barely breathe, empty and aching.

“You going to let me take care of you, baby?” Peter’s words are deep and rough, purred against Stiles’ ear. Stiles whines, tilting his head to give Peter more room, to encourage more wet kisses over his throat, more _everything_. The sounds streaming out of him go higher, a broken keening, when Peter’s fingers suddenly curl around the root of his dick, loosely circling.

 _Jesus fuck_.

“Is this for me?” Peter drags his thumb up Stiles’ shaft, rubbing at that beautifully sensitive spot right under the head. Stiles will go to his grave before admitting that the move makes him see stars, sparkling brilliant white at the edges of his vision. Peter’s ego doesn’t need that kind of help.

Stiles doesn’t have a huge dick, not like the frankly intimidating alpha anaconda Peter’s packing in his sweats, but it’s on the bigger side of average for an omega. Lengthwise, at least. He’s more than two inches, nearly two and a half, and he’s a bit of a grower. Definitely over three inches when he’s this hard. In terms of girth, he’s a little more remarkable; he’s thick enough to make an impression, which is something omegas can’t usually claim. Thick enough to make Peter purr every time they decide to switch things up, and Stiles gets to grind into that tight little alpha ass.

That’s not the plan at the moment, though. Right this second, Stiles is burning up. He needs the slow press of Peter’s dick, splitting him open where he’s wet and hungry for it. He needs Peter filling him up, deep and hard, and he needs to gorge himself on the fat, perfect knot his alpha’s going to give him.

He needs all of those things _so much_ , but Peter’s biting his neck and jacking him off with slow, languorous pulls, and Stiles can’t really put a sentence together.

“Please,” he can say, and he does, breathy and imploring. “Please, please Peter, _please—_ ”

He spreads his legs, because while the handjob is fantastic, slicked with the copious amount of precome he’s leaking like a broken pipe, there’s a throbbing lower down that’s so much more urgent than anything his dick could offer. He’s never felt this empty in his life, and now that he’s into this, now that he’s immersed himself in a willing alpha, it’s getting worse. The yawning pit inside him is getting legitimately frightening now, like he’s too open, and everything he is might spill out.

“Shh, honey, it’s alright.” It takes Stiles too long to realise that his face is wet with more than just sweat, and the blur in his eyes isn’t just from frustration and the haze of pleasure. Peter already noticed, and he bundles Stiles closer immediately, pinning him down under the primal comfort of his weight and brushing away Stiles’ tears with gentle fingers. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Stiles. It’s alright. Breathe for me, baby.”

Stiles’ arms are shaking, but he gets them around Peter’s back, fingers clutching at his shirt and pressing into muscle. He clings, burying his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and inhaling, drowning himself in alpha musk and the vibration of subvocal rumbling that Peter’s making in the back of his throat. It makes the ache between Stiles’ legs twist cruelly, but helps calm the cold tendrils of panic tightening in his gut. Peter’s got him. He’s got Peter. It’s okay.

“Is it too much, sweetheart? Do you want to stop?” Stiles snarls without meaning to, baring his teeth against the damp skin of Peter’s neck, and digs his fingers harder into Peter’s shoulders. He doesn’t have claws, but it’s still got to hurt, even with blunt, bitten-down human fingernails. Peter doesn’t flinch, just keeps nosing at Stiles’ hair, petting him with slow strokes and pressing him against the mattress. He’s still making that purring noise whenever he’s not speaking, like a big, idling engine; he does the same thing sometimes when Stiles wakes up from nightmares, drenched in cold sweat and fighting the urge to tear at his own skin.

“Okay,” Peter says, and kisses Stiles’ forehead, then his temple. “Okay, baby. We won’t stop, unless you want to. I’m right here. I’ve got you. But it’s your first full heat. If it’s too much, we can slow down—”

The bite, unlike the previous snarl, is intentional. Stiles slots his teeth against tendon and thick muscle, and clamps his jaw hard, until there’s a burst of iron on his tongue. Peter hisses, rearing back a few inches, and Stiles lets him go without a fight when it’s clear the plan isn’t to go very far; they’re still sandwiched together from chest to knees.

There’s a quickly purpling bruise and a little smear of red on Peter’s neck, but any pinpricks of broken skin are healed already. Stiles licks the hint of blood off his own teeth.

“ _Fuck_ slower.” He rolls his hips up, grinding his dick against Peter’s hip. “Not— not enough. I’m so empty, Peter. It _hurts_. Need you to fix it.” Stiles throws his head back against the pillow, and his own throat is a pale, slender arc. Vulnerable. “Need it now, need _you_. Get in me, alpha.”

Peter’s answering growl shakes Stiles to his bones, but the feeling isn’t anything like fear. He’s not remotely afraid, not even when Peter’s mouth closes over his Adam’s apple, with teeth that feel too long, too sharp, to be entirely human. Peter holds him like that even as one of his hands skates down Stiles’ stomach, detouring around his straining erection. He doesn’t stop this time until he’s teasing the tip of his finger through the wet curls of Stiles’ pubes, just barely slipping between the folds of his slit.

If the heat had felt like a warm bath before, Stiles is boiling now.

“More,” he gasps, whimpering softly when the careful pressure of Peter’s jaw tightens against his windpipe, just a fraction. Not enough to stifle his air at all, but the bite makes him dizzy for other reasons. “Now, more, c’mon alpha. Make me feel good—”

The first finger slides inside like a dream. Stiles is too wet, too receptive, for there to be any resistance. Even without any stretch, he’s hyperaware of every inch pressing into him. It’s immediately perfect, and entirely _not enough_. His hips jerk as much as they can under Peter’s weight, and he scratches at Peter’s clothed back, before finding the bare, hot skin at his nape and hanging on.

He whines, high and tremulous, when a second finger joins in without any teasing. Peter releases his throat, and Stiles doesn’t have a chance to complain about the loss before they’re kissing again, hard. Peter’s tongue is in his mouth, lapping at his palate. Mirroring the sweet, crooking motions his fingers, curling up into Stiles’ pussy.

Stiles moans with every breath, caught in the wet press of Peter’s kisses, and rocks his hips up again, chasing a rhythm. Peter doesn’t stop him, doesn’t try to hold him down, as Stiles rubs himself greedily against those dexterous fingers and the thick, perfect knobs of knuckles.

The pads of Peter’s fingers stroke inside him, finding all the sweetest spots of sensitive, swollen flesh. It’s as if he’s following a map; by this point, after nearly a year of sleeping together, Peter has diligently committed the topography of Stiles’ body to memory. He knows precisely where to touch, how to please, and _fuck_ , Stiles is unravelling already.

His first orgasm ambushes him; he’s clenching around Peter’s fingers, digging his heels into the mattress. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, and the long, shuddering sound he wails into Peter’s mouth would probably be embarrassing on a different day, in a different situation. Even if Peter is also pretty damn far from quiet and composed, groaning and grunting between their shared breaths as he thrusts his hand against the fresh torrent of slick that just soaked him to the wrist.

Stiles is tingling all over. He’s still coming, sort of— the pleasure is too acute to be normal aftershocks, but it’s not quite the overwhelming rush of an orgasm either. It’s not easing off like he expects; every single one of his nerves is singing, sparking.

He can feel a plateau, another one, just out of reach. It’s scary, exhilarating, like looking at the ocean in a storm and feeling so small; his heart is in his throat, pounding. But Peter’s here, and Stiles clings to that sureness, that familiarity.

The blunt head of Peter’s cock is familiar too, and Stiles melts at the first touch. It’s just the tip, dragging against him where Peter’s fingers are still moving inside him. Stiles’ legs drop open, his thighs spreading so wide and wanton that it makes his hips ache with the stretch. He can hear the desperate noises he’s making— crooning, wordless, and if it sounds like begging, _good_ , because that’s exactly what it is. And he knows Peter’s murmuring something low and rough in return, probably more sensible than Stiles can manage at the moment. Peter’s voice makes him feel good, even if he doesn’t care what’s being said.

Peter’s dick is so much bigger than two fingers, but the slide is still so easy. Stiles has never been this wet in his life. There’s no need to wait, to adjust, even though Peter is hung like a fucking bull.

“ _Oh_.” Now that he’s stuffed full, blanketed in the scent and weight of familiar, comforting alpha, it’s like the worst of that stifling fog is clearing from Stiles’ brain. He still wants to fuck more than he wants air, more than he wants _anything_ , but some measure of coherence is trickling in again. He’s at least lucid enough to recognise the strain in Peter’s shoulders and the tendons of his neck, as he holds himself over Stiles. “Shit, Stiles. You’re so— fuck. Oh, _fuck_.”

There’s a faint sheen of sweat on Peter’s forehead, making his hair cling in dark, flat whorls. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his chest his heaving with big, panting breaths.

He’s staying perfectly still, except for the finest tremble in the corded muscles of his arms, elbows locked and palms braced on the mattress. Later, Stiles will probably appreciate the intention behind the restraint, but right now Peter needs to _move his ass_.

Stiles’ arms feel like noodles, lax and loose, but he manages to drag his hands up the back of Peter’s neck, combing through his hair. When he tugs, not too hard but insistent, Peter’s eyes flutter open. It takes a moment for him to focus, gaze sliding almost drunkenly over Stiles’ face. His pupils are huge, ringed in bright, burning blue.

“Fuck me.” It’s more command than plea, even with the hot length of Peter’s dick stretching him wide, filling him up. Stiles’ voice breaks when Peter’s hips stutter, and they both whine, reedy and breathless. “C’mon. C’mon, _fuck_ me, alpha—”

Peter doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t really need to. The sudden lurch forward, the slap of skin against skin, is a fairly blatant clue that the alpha is getting with the program.

Any hesitance is gone, and Stiles might’ve laughed if he could catch a breath. He’s joyous, bursting with it, rolling up to meet every jackrabbiting thrust as Peter snarls and hunches over him, fucking hard and deep. He can feel every inch, _needs_ every inch, to feed this starving ache inside him.

“Yes, yes, _yes—_ ” He barely has enough breath for that one word, but he uses it, gasping and chanting to urge his alpha, raking his nails across Peter’s scalp. His back scoots along the sheets as the strength of Peter’s thrusts drive him up, but he can’t go too far. The nest of pillows is right there, sturdy and soft, cossetting him.

The weird almost-orgasm feeling hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s gotten bigger, brighter and sharper, and Stiles has never felt anything like this. It’s _impossible_. He’s floating, flying— everything is sparks and light, and pleasure so intense it’s bordering on something _more_ , skittering through his nerves like they’re live wires. It’s Peter’s body, thick and heavy, above him and around him, and the chorus of wet, slick sounds. It’s the smell of their sweat, the musk of rut, and Peter’s breath puffing hot against the slender arch of Stiles’ throat. There isn’t anything else in the world but this; Stiles is so full, so close to spilling over, there isn’t space for anything else.

There’s a ripping sound, near enough to Stiles’ ears that he can’t help but notice, even if focusing on anything but Peter is a struggle. His head lolls to the side, but he barely has the chance to register the sight of Peter’s claws sinking into the sheets, tearing their den. He feels a flash of absurd outrage— it’s their _den,_ and Peter’s _ripping_ it— but that thought is shoved aside when Peter’s thrusts suddenly tighten up, get shorter, grinding into him.

The second the realisation hits him, Stiles squeezes every internal muscle, clamping down, and _yes_ , he can feel the thickening. The promise of a knot, of _his alpha’s knot_ , makes his head swim.

Peter grunts, breathing harder, as Stiles clutches around his cock. The delicious, insistent rocking of his hips also traps Stiles’ dick between their bellies, letting him rub up into the coarse nest of Peter’s pubes. The friction’s almost cruel, almost too much to bear against the delicate, wet tip of his cock, but so damn good. If anything, that uncertain, shivery border between pain and pleasure makes everything burn even brighter.

It’s hard for Stiles to catch a breath; every inhale stalls in his throat, halfway between a hiccup and a whimper. He’s too sensitive, but it’s still not enough, and Stiles strains against the feeling, chasing more. When Peter swivels his hips, it’s like fireworks— it’s heaven, it’s _perfect_ , and getting better all the time as Peter’s knot makes its presence known.

When they catch, _finally_ , when the knot swells full and fat enough to lock them together, Stiles wails at the sensation. Peter’s knotted him before, his pussy and his ass, but it’s never been like this. It’s never slipped in so easy, so smooth. Never felt like such a rush of sublime warmth. Of pure, bone-deep satisfaction, rattling Stiles to his core and at the same time, soothing a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying for too long.

He’s still clamping down, squeezing rhythmically around Peter’s dick, but it’s all instinct now. His body giving into the hormones, the endorphins, and milking his alpha relentlessly. Stiles can just lay back and let it happen; he’ll only cramp if he fights it, but he doesn’t even think of that now. He slips under, floating in bliss, and clumsily petting Peter’s sweat-soaked hair.

“S’good.” He’s slurring, murmuring, barely able to understand himself, but the urge to praise his alpha is strong, even if Peter has no idea what he’s saying. “So… _oh_. So good, alpha.”

Peter whines, a wounded noise with his forehead resting on Stiles’ collarbone. The first pulse is strange— it’s slickness and heat where Stiles is already sopping and burning, but there’s more pressure now, and Peter’s pained noises take on a frantic note. Stiles can feel himself clenching and releasing in waves as Peter’s orgasm starts filling him up, throbbing inside him like a heartbeat.

Everything is so warm, so safe and sweet here, and Stiles lets himself sink into it.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles comes back to himself, he’s lying in a massive, gooey wet spot, blanketed by a naked werewolf, and he’s still got a knot lodged in his pussy. On a normal day, the knot would’ve meant he hadn’t lost most than a half-hour of time, at most. Probably less than fifteen minutes. But Stiles has no idea how long Peter’s knot takes to go down when he’s in rut.

With a low groan, Peter heaves himself up on an elbow, just far enough that he can look Stiles in the face. “Mm, welcome back, baby.”

Stiles finds he doesn’t actually want to speak yet. He reaches out instead, cupping Peter’s jaw and drawing him down into a slow, tender kiss. Peter obliges him, and then some, lapping into Stiles mouth. It’s filthy, making Stiles’ toes curl into the bedding, but it also stays profoundly gentle.

Eventually, Peter eases back, but not far. They’re so close, breathing the same air, as he nuzzles Stiles’ cheek.

“Finally lost the shirt,” Stiles says, skating his hands down the planes of Peter’s gloriously bare, gloriously muscles back. He’s hoarse, dried out, and his throat aches as though he’s been screaming. He remembers red cotton, stained dark with sweat, clinging. He doesn’t remember Peter taking it off.

Peter hums, nosing under Stiles’ ear, sniffing and leaving damp trails wherever he decides to taste. Which is basically everywhere he can reach.

“Soon as we untie,” he says, between kisses and licks. “I’ll get you water. There’s a bar fridge in the corner. Food too.”

“Such a good alpha.” It doesn’t sound nearly as teasing as Stiles thought it would, and he bites his lip, trying to hide his smile in Peter’s hair.

“You were perfect.” Peter doesn’t sound teasing either, and his broad hand strokes along Stiles’ ribs. “My sweet boy. You were so… It hit me harder than I thought, the rut, _you_ — your smell, baby. The taste of you. But I’ll last longer, next round. Take you apart, make it so good for you. I promise.”

“What?” It could have easily been a sexy promise, but there’s nothing really lewd or suggestive in Peter’s tone, despite the topic. There’s unmistakable tension in his shoulders, though, which is where Stiles swats him with the back of one hand. “Hey, look at me.”

Peter doesn’t balk, doesn’t make any attempt to hide in the crook of Stiles’ throat. When he shifts up again, however, his chin is jutting out, almost challengingly. Certainly defensive, and Jesus god, somebody save Stiles from the bullheadedness and delicate egos of alphas.

“Listen, fuckface.” Stiles has never been especially shy about dealing with those delicate egos. “If you think for one second that wasn’t mindblowing sex, like, _phenomenally great sex_ , I swear to god, I will kick your ass out of this den and call Scott to bring me the biggest knotting dildo I got at my place.”

Peter growls at the mention of Scott’s name, but Stiles isn’t close to finished. “No, shut up. Listen to me, wolf, because I am deadly serious here. I will get a dildo, and I will take care of myself for as long as this shit takes. Because I refuse to have sex, even _mindblowingly phenomenal_ sex, with a fucking idiot. Test me, asshole. I dare you.”

He swats Peter’s shoulder again, not as hard as he wants to. The movement, and Peter trying to avoid it, is more than enough to jostle the knot. They both groan, quiet and breathless, at the sudden, visceral reminder that they’re still tied. To hammer his point home, Stiles takes the opportunity to flex his hips, then preens when Peter hisses out a few fierce curses. The knot stretches Stiles from the inside whenever he shifts, triggering delicious, quaking aftershocks. It takes him a second to catch his breath, but this is important.

“Peter, babe. Alpha mine. You know I wouldn’t bullshit about this.” Stiles rubs his hand up Peter’s arm to soothe away any hurt. And, hopefully, chase some doubts away too. “That was _awesome_. You’re so stupidly gorgeous in a rut, sexy as hell, and it’s because of _me_ — do you know what a turn on that is? I’ve never cum that hard in my life, for godsake. I’m surprised I can still feel my legs. And hell, if you still wanna do better next time? Please, I invite you to try. Work your alpha magic all over my luscious, nubile body ‘til I’m speaking in tongues, if you want. I honestly can’t lose here. But don’t try to tell me you didn’t just sex me up so good, man, because goddamn.”

“Stop talking,” Peter says, snappish. Petulant, even. But the worst of that rock-hard tension bleeds out of him as he settles back down, tucking his face against Stiles’ neck.

“Yes, alpha.” Stiles strokes Peter’s hair, his neck, and lets his eyes drift shut. He’s thirsty, but a nap isn’t a bad option, either. “Good alpha.”

 _Ridiculous fucking alpha_.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has his own tender, swollen nipples pinched between his fingers, and Peter’s tongue buried in his pussy, when somebody knocks sharply on the bedroom door. They’re in a lull between peaks of heat and rut, and they’ve already rehydrated on plenty of water and juice, and snacked on fruit and protein bars. This is an intermission in the desperation, the wilder instinct, and they’re playing a little, pleasantly killing time as the next waves start gaining strength like a tide.

It means they’re coherent enough to stop, even if Stiles wants to rip the balls off whoever is waiting outside.

“Stiles?” Except _fuck everything_ , that's his dad's voice. “Stiles! What the hell is going on?”

“Head,” Peter mutters, low enough that the sheriff won’t be able to hear. Hopefully. “The giving thereof.” Then he wraps his lips around Stiles’ cock and sucks, hard.

Stiles bites back a moan, heels digging into Peter’s back where Stiles’ legs are hooked over his shoulders. He reaches down, with so much regret it nearly hurts, and forces himself to push Peter’s forehead until the asshole backs off.

“Stiles!”

“Sorta busy, Dad!” His voice cracks, profoundly unsteady, and Peter doesn’t help his composure in the slightest, even though he doesn’t really do much. Just stays where he is, nestled in the vee of Stiles’ spread legs, and presses a few chaste kisses against trembling thighs.

Relatively chaste, anyway. They’re both naked, both hard. Stiles is soaking wet with the same glossy, silky slick that’s smeared all over Peter’s mouth and chin. The entire room reeks of sex, like hormones, and fluids, and _them_.

There’s a lengthy pause before his dad speaks again. “I need to know you’re okay, kiddo. I don’t… I need to know you’re alright.”

The seriousness in that tone is enough to sober Stiles up significantly. He tries to sit up, and Peter doesn’t argue about it, even if he’s clearly annoyed by the interruption.

Stiles doesn’t make any attempt to crawl out of their little den fort, though. He simply gets his legs folded under him, sits back on his heels, and peeks his head out into the dim room so he’s not shouting through blanket walls. His dad can hear him from here if he raises his voice. The thought of opening the door right now makes something anxious and weirdly aggressive flare up in Stiles’ gut.

“I’m good,” Stiles says loudly, clearly, and as steady as he can manage. “We’re good, Dad. Promise. Everybody’s happy in here. We’re, uh, gonna need a little more time, though, you know?”

Peter slithers up behind him, plasters tightly against his back, with his chin propped on Stiles’ shoulder. His hands don’t tease, but they do touch: one spreads wide over the centre of Stiles’ chest, just holding him, and the other tangles together with Stiles’ fingers. The contact is so welcome, Stiles feels no shame melting back into Peter’s embrace.

Judging by the deep, contented rumble currently vibrating out of him, Peter’s pleased by the reaction.

“Alright, that’s what I was worried about. Listen, son—” He loves his dad, so much, but for fucksake, how much longer are these reassurances going to drag on? “I brought some things. Some, uh… Things like your mother usually wanted, during. And after. Supplies, water, some food. Fresh sheets.”

The purring gets rougher, taking on a distinct edge. Stiles reaches back to comb fingers through Peter’s hair, murmuring softly, trying to nip that agitation in the bud. The idea of someone else providing for Stiles right now, even his own father, isn’t going to be well-received.

His dad probably didn’t realise how the gesture would be interpreted. John Stilinski might have been married to an omega, might have gone through a fair number of Claudia’s heats with her, but he’s a beta. Right now, Peter’s alpha instincts are heightened by the rut, and by his proximity to a willing, eager omega; that’s something John has never experienced.

“Yeah, thanks.” Stiles makes the executive decision that potential embarrassment is an acceptable price to pay, if it means they’ll be left alone. “I can’t really come to the door right now. I’m sort of tied up, if you catch my drift. Leave the stuff out there, and we’ll get it later.”

The rasp of Peter’s laugh is a good sign, and the way he starts to relax against Stiles’ back is even better. “Classy, sweetheart.”

“Eat me,” Stiles says quietly, flicking Peter’s ear. “I’m improvising. Not like you’re being much fucking help. And _no_ , I’m not asking you to help, shut up.”

“I brought condoms,” John calls out, because apparently this can get worse. “I know you’re a grown man, Stiles. You’re both adults, and it’s none of my business, but... Damn it, you’re nineteen years old, and this is your first heat. You know what you want, I know that, and I’m not trying to talk you out of anything. Lord knows that’ll get me nowhere. I’m just saying, there’s no need to rush things. There’ll be other heats. I just—” There’s silence for a beat, while both Stiles and Peter sit there, frozen. “I guess I don’t feel ready to be a grandpa yet. But hell, if that’s what you really want, I’ll still have your back, kid—”

“ _What_?” Stiles isn’t currently swamped in cum, but that’s only because Peter has been very insistent about licking it off of him. There’d also been some additional wet-wipe action involved, to a lesser extent. But he’s sticky between his thighs, and not just with his own slick. Peter really filled him up, all creamy and blissful, blowing his load with the vigor of about a decade’s worth of pent up rut. Stiles is still leaking. And there’s also a pile of sodden blankets shoved in the corner that can attest to how late the notion of condoms is to this particular party.

“Dad, I’m on the pill!” This conversation would be pretty awkward, even if he wasn’t yelling through a door, totally naked, with the hard line of Peter’s cock pressed against the small of his back.

He and Peter have been fluid-bonded for months; sometimes they still use condoms, mostly for easy cleanup, but not always. It’s slightly riskier in terms of pregnancy, sure, but his birth control pills are supposed to be like ninety-nine percent effective, even during heat.

“I _know_ that.” John sounds utterly exasperated for some reason. “But I called Dr. Villa after Derek called me, and she said your cycle might be screwy for a while, since you stopped taking the suppressant—”

“Hey, whoa, I didn’t stop taking my pills!” Stiles throws his hands in the air, even though his dad can’t see it. “Why does everybody assume I’m some kind of fucking douchebag, who’d just stop taking my suppressants for shits and giggles? I take them everyday like clockwork, okay? They. Stopped. _Working_. I am just as freakin’ surprised about my ovaries casting off their pharmaceutical shackles as anybody else!”

“Shh, honey.” Peter wraps his arms more securely around Stiles, bundling him closer, but it doesn’t feel constrictive. Being nestled in the shelter of his alpha’s bulk is settling, calming the storm building in his belly. “John, go. It’s handled.”

When his dad starts to argue, Stiles doesn’t repress his snarl. He wants quiet, seclusion, and Peter.

“Dad, please,” he manages to grit out. He’s struggling not to be a dick, and his dad’s just trying to help, but this conversation needs to be over. “Go. I need you to go.”

“Alright, alright.” It feels like nothing short of a miracle when his dad makes a loud, frustrated noise, but doesn’t push any further. “I’m going. Hey, Hale! You better treat my son right, or after he’s done kicking your ass, I’m taking a turn. You hear me?”

“Kinky,” Peter whispers against Stiles’ ear, then cranes his head up to speak toward the door. “Loud and clear, Sheriff, sir.”

 

* * *

 

It takes eight days— _eight goddamn days_ — for the intermittent rushes of incoherent horniness to die down. And as fun as those eight days are, Stiles can’t help but be oddly relieved by the return of his normal state of near-constant, but only mildly distracting, arousal.

He’s a sexually adventurous nineteen-year-old, with a voracious libido, and a boyfriend so hot he’d make the devil sweat. Stiles is basically down to fuck twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five, but those eight days had been a gruelling, gorgeous sex marathon, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. The freaking Orgasm Olympics.

They spend a couple more days recuperating, and remunerating in Peter’s case. He actually pays to have the whole house professionally cleaned, and the sheets laundered, if only to spare them all Derek’s increasingly grouchy complaining about it.

Shortly thereafter, Stiles makes a call, and soon finds himself in a particularly unenviable position, but not an unfamiliar one: laid out on his back, knees up, and naked from the waist down. It’s the stirrups that really ruin the mood. That, and the fact that Dr. Villa is a fucking sadist who never warms her intruments.

“There’s some bruising, which is normal. But no tearing.” She prods him again, not actually a rough touch, but _fuck_ , he’s still tender. Peter’s perched on a stool up by Stiles’ head, and the wince Stiles can’t quite suppress makes him growl. Dr. Villa pops up from between Stiles’ legs. “Are you having any pain?”

Stiles shakes his head, then clarifies when Peter squeezes his hand. “I’m sore. A little. It’s not a big deal, Doc.”

Dr. Villa hums, narrowing her eyes, then ducks back down for another quick look and a poke. Then, almost before Stiles realises what’s happening, she’s wheeling her stool back towards her desk.

“Okay, Stiles.” The neoprene gloves slide off her hands with a quick snap, and disappear into the disposal bin. “Legs down. I’ll leave you to get dressed, then we can have a chat.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, that was enlightening.” Stiles takes a breath, drumming his thumbs on his thighs. He’d be tapping out an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel, except they hadn’t taken Rosco to his appointment. Peter’s the one in the driver’s seat, staring out the windshield of his Lexus, unblinking. “And unexpected. But I’m, uh. I’m not pregnant? That’s. That’s something.”

Kids are a thing Stiles can see himself wanting someday, probably, but his dad was right: he’s only nineteen, and they’ll be other heats. Other heats with Peter, hopefully. If Dr. fucking Villa hadn’t just scared the dude off.

“And,” Stiles continues, when it becomes abundantly clear that Peter isn’t keen to fill the silence. “I’m the pinnacle of health and omegatude. Omeganess and attitude. No problems, no weird shit going on downstairs, nothing to worry about. I’m good. That’s good. Right?”

Peter makes a sound that might be agreement, or it might just be indigestion. Either way, _words_ would be a major improvement.

“You’re freaking out.” That observation, at least, prompts Peter to actually look at him, instead of blindly staring out into the half-empty lot where they’re parked. Stiles raises both eyebrows, challenging. Internally, he’s shitting himself with nervousness, but he’ll be damned if he lets an ounce of that show. “You’re totally freaking out.”

“I’m not.”

“Are so.” Stiles pokes him in the arm, and tries not to notice the way Peter subtly flinches before he even touches him. Tries not to feel a pang of hurt about it. “You haven’t said a word in like, fifteen minutes. You went so white in that office, I thought you were gonna pass out. Or puke on Dr. Villa’s shoes.”

“I’m _surprised_ ,” Peter snaps, actually angry for a shocking second, then immediately seems to deflate. He scrubs a hand over his face, and rakes it back through his hair. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Fuck. I built you a goddamn den. At _Derek’s_.”

Before Stiles can ask for some clarification there— honestly, he has been wondering why they hadn’t holed up in Peter’s luxurious downtown apartment for the sexcapades, but simply taking the opportunity to torture Derek seemed as likely a reason as any— Peter is pressing on. Now that he’s started talking, he’s not quick to stop.

“I made a den,” he says. “Surrounded by pack. By family. The whole house stunk like Cora and Scott, and _Braeden_. Like alpha, and I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. I just wanted you safe and _home_. Of course I shouldn’t be surprised. Fuck, _fuck_ , I’m an idiot.”

“Are not.” Stiles pokes him again, softer this time. Letting his fingertips linger on Peter’s bare arm, peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt. “You’re just enamoured by my wily charms, oh alpha mine. You got it bad, buddy. You got it bad for this fine piece of omega ass, right here.”

Stiles wriggles in the plush leather seat, contorting, showing off the goofiest, most exaggerated poses he can manage. It works as intended; after a moment of indecision, the worst of the strained mood cracks, and Peter chuckles.

“I’m not the only one, sweetheart.” This time, it’s Peter who reaches out, tracing a thumb along the line of Stiles’ jaw. When Stiles bares his throat, Peter’s hand flattens out: a warm, secure weight resting against his collarbone. “It takes two to tango. Or form a bond.”

“That’s true.” Sinking farther into his seat, Stiles relishes Peter’s touch, trilling pleasantly. “Mm. Guess I’m all twitterpated too. So deep in gross, sappy _lurve_ that it messed with my meds. Congrats on being so goddamn irresistible, you jerk.”

They’d left the doctor’s office with two prescriptions: a refill on birth control pills, and a new suppressant. A stronger one, in a different brand. Evidently, Stiles' old pills weren’t effective enough to counteract the increased hormone production during a nascent bond.

A freaking _mating bond_ , like the one growing between them. The one neither Stiles nor Peter had noticed.

“Likewise.” Peter’s hand shifts, slowly petting up Stiles’ throat, then back down again. “Darling boy.”

“Your darling boy,” Stiles says, without really thinking about it. He regrets it immediately, when Peter’s expression sours, turning pensive, tightening around his eyes.

“You know, it’s not set in stone,” Peter says. His hand stalls, his touch becoming almost tentative, but he doesn’t pull away entirely. “Bonds are… they’re not permanent, but they’re serious. We’ve never discussed it, and this isn’t the sort of thing we should stumble into blindly. There are things we could do, if you don’t want—”

“Yeah, they’re serious.” Stiles turns, so he’s facing Peter more directly. There’s a guarded look in those blue eyes that he doesn’t like one bit. “But I think we’re pretty serious. I mean, who else has a key to your place?”

Peter only hesitates briefly before answering. “No one.”

“No one.” Stiles nods, lips pressed together. “And what about this rut thing? You building swanky dens for anybody else when I’m not looking, wolf?”

“No.” As irritated as he’s trying to sound, there’s a smile playing around Peter’s mouth. “You’re the only smartass little shit I’ve humiliated myself in public for recently. You know, I don’t even remember buying that TV, or the fridge, but they’re on my damn credit card statement.”

“You wandered barefoot and rut-drunk into Best Buy for me.” Stiles flutters his eyelashes, but even as playfully coy as he’s acting, his intentions are very sincere. “You fed me strawberries, and crunchy peanut butter, and let me watch Adventure Time with your dick stuck in me, even though you always whine about it being too weird.”

He tips his head down, pressing a firm kiss against Peter’s wrist. “Babe, listen. I already know you like it, and I’m not saying you gotta put a ring on it. All I’m saying is, I’m game for seeing how this bond thing works out, if you are.”

It’s a gamble, and Stiles can barely breathe around the tangle of anxiety in his chest. But Peter made him a den. A plush, comfortable den. More than that, it was a thoughtful den, and clever as hell. With Netflix, and a couple waterproof mattress pads sandwiched amongst their blankets, so they could toss a few layers of sheets when they got too wet and nasty, and still have a dry, cosy bed underneath.

A comfortable, clever den, in the middle of the pack house. The latter part is a wolf thing, not an alpha thing, but it all points in the same direction. Even in a rut, Peter’s secure enough about the affection between them, the bond, that he put safety ahead of seclusion. He surrounded them in the scents of family, the security of pack.

The alpha in him thinks Stiles is worth wooing. The wolf in him thinks Stiles is worth _keeping_.

Or, Stiles really hopes that’s what this all means.

Yeah, it’s a gamble, and maybe he’s terrified that he’s somehow reading Peter all wrong, but Stiles has faith that the odds are stacked in his favour here. Even if Peter’s simply looking at him now, blank and unreadable. Not speaking.

“I’m game,” Peter says, after an eternity. “You exquisite, impossible brat.”

It’s so abrupt, after all that silence, that Stiles doesn’t quite parse the meaning. Not until Peter’s face splits, and that slow-blooming smile… that smile is like the sun. It’s so bright, so damn _happy_ , that it’s almost a shame to hide it under a kiss. Or a hundred eager, joyous kisses.

But climbing into Peter’s lap doesn’t stop the dude from smiling, or from huffing out an indulgent laugh and gripping Stiles’ hips between his hands. The whole car feels hotter already.

And really, Stiles is okay with possibly tempting fate, Icarus-style, if it means he gets up close and personal with that blinding smile, those lips, those teeth. That wicked tongue.

They’ve already burned together, tangled up in the sweetest way, and they’re not finished yet. It’s big, it’s scary as hell, but Stiles isn’t afraid.

It’s not like Peter’s going to let him fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took longer than I'd planned, but I hope you enjoyed the ride! And the sappy ending, because I am weak for that shit ♥
> 
> Thank you very much for reading my first (but definitely not last) a/b/o! I'm always so grateful for your feedback and support. You all rock.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always deeply appreciated <3


End file.
